


Like Lead into the Sea

by Diomedeidae



Series: Door Number Two [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Girl!Stiles, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diomedeidae/pseuds/Diomedeidae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Stiles runs from Kanimas and hunters, she tries to establish some modicum of order back into her life while trying to survive from... whatever this is : creating uneasy alliances with monsters trying to fight monsters controlled by monsters.</p><p>So who is the real monster?  What is the definition of a monster?</p><p>Trying to get people to work with you is like pulling teeth.</p><p>Sequel to "Where Do We Go From Here" (Female Stiles) /// AU of Season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Teen Wolf.
> 
> Warnings: language, slight AU, un-betaed, violence.

## we used to kind of get along

I.

Principal Argent is one of the strangest dichotomies that she has seen yet in her short life: a mixture of three-days-older-than-dirt and clear eyes that bespoke of something completely opposite of what his ‘grandfatherly’ persona implies.  His hands, wrinkled, were clasped over the desk, over an organized pile of paperwork on the funding of clubs and afterschool programs.  She sat in a room that screamed ‘this is a friendly environment - look at all the school colors on my walls, pictures of my family on my desk and medals, and accolades of Beacon Hills High on my bookshelves;’ the room was trying so hard that it was almost going to strain its own metaphorical back.  Her right knee was twitching uncontrollably under the oak desk.  She needed Adderall two hours ago.  Principal Argent smiled disappeared as he sighed dolefully, excluding an air of one who is exasperated and tired, “If you really refuse to tell me anything about Derek Hale, Miss Stilinski, I think we’re through.  Just remember that I’m trying to protect my students from a dangerous man.”  He reached up to pat her on the arm, “be careful; your father just set up curfew again after the third animal attack this week and he will be very unhappy if anything happens to you.”  She twitched again with the contact.  _Bad touch from a very bad man._

Dismissed, Stiles Stilinski offered a strained smile, pushed her chair back and rose to her feet, smoothing the wrinkles out of her vest and skirt as she headed back out the door with Argent’s request to bring the next ‘troublemaker’ in.  The hallway was empty save for a long bench backed against the wall with two sophomore boys sitting on either side, each leaning with their knees slightly away from the other, as if trying to put as much space between them without it seeming too insulting.  To the one on the left, she said, “You’re up.  Nice camera.”  To the one on the right, she waited until the principal’s door opens and closes shut and then muttered, “Dude.  If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under with Nikon-guy’s hate before you can howl.  Who is he?”

Scott McCall snarled in anger, facial features still human, but regained his composure when Stiles warily stepped back, “He was taking photos of girls in the locker room.  He was taking pictures of Allison.”  He rolled his shoulders back until they popped, “I forgot his name… Mike?  Marvin? He’s on the lacrosse team but we’re not close.”

“Far from it,” she drily noted, stretching up and turning away.  “Well then, I’m glad to know that his anger management issues were aimed at you and not me.  Love triangles are a nice way to spice up life.”  Stiles held out an arm; Scott wordlessly straightened and hooked his arm through hers.  As they walked down the empty halls and down the stairs, they were careful to keep their voices low, “Sorry I got out late, Harris hasn’t let up on my ass despite me having not taken advantage of his sorry state with the whole Hale-Alpha thing and Principal Argent tried for half an hour to pronounce my real name.”  Her fingers brushed absentmindedly over the lockers as they strolled by.

“No worries,” Scott crookedly grinned, pushing the front doors open, “I just got a text back from Allison.  The family dinner is a-go,” he deflated a bit as they stepped out into the sun, squinting at the bright reflection from the cars and then back at the school building as though imbued werewolf powers included X-ray vision, “every Argent is going to be there, even the Principal.  Allison’s dad hasn’t said anything yet but I don’t think he’s forgiven me for introducing all of this supernatural wolf-stuff to her.  I think her mom despises me for it.  I’m pretty sure, you know, since she… with her car…  Well, yeah, it wasn’t me specifically who did that but I was a pretty big part of it.”  He hastily added seeing Stiles’ mouth open in token protest and then flashed a double-thumbs up sign, “I’ll give the Bestiality to you as soon as I can.”

The term “Bestiality” has been going strong for two weeks. 

“Uh huh.  Give me a call if things go south.  I managed to strong-arm Mr. Argent Junior into keeping you relatively alive but I can’t say the same with Mrs. Argent.”  She rubbed the bridge of her nose, watching Scott unlock his bike from the rails and carry it to her vehicle, “I’ll be hanging out with my jeep doing homework and patrolling the neighborhood.  God, I hope she’s fully drivable,” and fretted as she rubbed the paint job and started picking at the parts where rust has started to set in.

“Don’t stay outside,” the other boy reminded her as he closed the back door.

“I know, I know.”  Stiles waved off his worries, “Don’t mother me, dude.  I’ll stay inside the car… it’s just that the weather’s great and I need to get fresh air before I smash my head against the next available hard surface.  My dad’s already over protective as is with that whole new string of ‘animal attacks’ and his unofficial inquiry into Principal Argent’s background.”  She glumly kicks at the concrete sidewalk, “Sucks that bureaucracy is such a bitch.  He has his hands tied since he can’t say, ‘I need a warrant because werewolves.’  It’ll be easier if he just was, like, ‘I need a warrant because fuck you that’s why.’”

“Derek’s not helping?”

She snorted as she opened the driver’s door and climbed in.  Closing the door behind her, she reached into the glove compartment, popped an Adderall into her mouth and washed it down with a bottle of water, “Derek Hale is persona non grata in the Stilinski household after their argument about Isaac Lahey and the murder of his dad, Coach Lahey.  Remember?  One wants the guy to turn himself in and the other wants to hide him from the hunters whom he’s convinced have members in the police department?  Not to mention that he also bit Erica Reyes last week and made her change the most talked-about event since Lydia and Jackson’s epic break-up.  Thank god he’s keeping Vernon Boyd’s bite under wraps.”  She rapped her fist against her temple, “It’s just: common sense – he needs it.”  She and Scott took a moment to recall the sudden change in the epileptic girl that somehow made a complete one-eighty from zero to leopard print, low cut necklines, short skirts, and the leather jacket that she was certain is a Hale trademark.   Stiles slips the keys into ignition and turns, muttering curses under her breath when it takes too long for the jeep to respond.

Scott dug into his backpack, pulled out his phone and started to fiddle with Angry Birds as they pulled out of the parking lot, “They looked like they were doing pretty well when we last checked on them.”  With raised eyebrows, he nudged her arm, “Remember when Erica suddenly rushed up and began making out with Derek when they were training in that abandoned station?”

“And then he pushed her off after, like, five seconds of serious tongue?  Highlight of my week, right there, and awkward turtles for everyone.”  Giving a low whistle, Stiles made a turn, “Besides the whole ‘ew gross PDA’ thing, I don’t know why they stopped so… violently.  He obviously enjoyed it and she’s obviously hot.  And unstable,” she tacked on as an afterthought with a face of distaste as she stroked the steering wheel.  “Still haven’t forgiven her for wrecking my baby, which was why we were visiting in the first place.”

“At least she promised to pay for damages.”  Scott flicked his wrist at his phone’s screen as Bomb, the black bird, smashed into a structure holding five Corporal Pigs, and exploded, “I mean: Derek forced her to offer but it was only right.  You reap what you sow.” He rolled down his window and rested his head against the frame.

“I guess…  Not that her apology was most sincere.  I’m actually more afraid of her now.”  _A bad Alpha trains bad betas.  Why do you still help them, Stiles?_ She frowned at the dashboard as it creaked ominously when she stepped gently on the gas, “Damn it, my car is overheating – the leak in the radiator is still there.”

“Next time you go to get repairs, I can threaten the mechanic for you.”  Scott is as threatening as a cute Labrador puppy with a tendency to get distracted by his own tail.  “No seriously, stop laughing, I can flash some fang at him and the wolf face and he’ll give you a discount and good quality service.”

“That asshole had the balls to tell me that I needed to refill on headlight fluid.  You can find fucking headlight fluid in the aisle next to the elbow grease.” She angrily punctuates her sentences with vicious jabs at the space in front of her, “Did you know that that is a tactic to test how stupid you are in car knowledge and to give an estimate on how much money they can cheat out of you.  Like I don’t need that type bullshit at all and I shouldn’t have to bring a guy to defend my honor or anything, no offense.”  Stiles groused, having resumed tapping anxiously on the steering wheel, “Not that it matters anymore.  He’s dead.  I’m pretty sure no one can survive getting crushed into a flat pancake.” 

(“9-1-1, what is your emergency?  …Hello?  This is 9-1-1.  ….Is anyone there?”)

“I don’t even know what that thing was,” she murmured, shaking out the phantom numbness creeping up from her right fingertips, “What I don’t get is that it wasn’t werewolf-y.  It was more lizard-y, with a tail…”  She glanced over, flexing her hand, “Would Derek know…”

“I called him yesterday.  Derek has no clue,” he shook his head and tapped his ears, “no lie.”  A flash of gold in his eyes, his voice grew more guttural with worry, “Do you think his uncle…”

_\--nima…_

She let her eyes drift back onto the road, “Probably.”  She replied grimly, “Another question for the dead man, Mr. Peter Hale, leaving us high-schoolers to clean up after his messes.”  They pulled up to the driveway to a modestly sized house in a moderately sized neighborhood.  If one knew where to look, one can find the familiar foot prints of a teenage boy walking on the tiled roof top.  The white sideboards were as fresh and the colorful Begonias planted under the windowsill of a second floor bedroom.  In the shadows of the begonias were little patches of Wolfs bane.  Stiles idly wondered how many secret caches the house has to store illegal firearms, “We’re here.”  Scott gave a two fingered salute as he opened the door.   “Alright, remember the rules.  Be careful.  Don’t be stupid.  Don’t piss off the in-laws …too much.  And use protection.  None of us wants were-puppies at this moment,” she dutifully listed off with her fingers.  “I guarantee you that if you fuck up, or even just fuck, I will sell your sob story to MTV Teen Mom: Halloween Edition.”  _Do you know how irresponsible it is to allow a werewolf, an Omega, to mate with the heir of royalty?  I ought to kill you before you do something beyond stupid, errant Beta._

“Stiles!”  Scott flushed as he quickly exited the vehicle with a graceless hop, slamming the door shut as Stiles barked with laughter. 

As she restarted the car, Scott tapped on the driver’s window insistently until Stiles rolled it down and asked nonplussed as she sensed a change in the atmosphere, “Yeah?”

Scott’s face expressed grimness as he gently squeezed her shoulder, “Always keep the Mountain Ash with you, alright? Dr. Deaton said that it will ward off other creatures besides werewolves.  Be like a Boy Scout.  Be prepared.”

Patting her inner vest pocket, Stiles nodded with the same amount of solemnity and bumped fists with him.  “I’ll be fine, mom.”  Scott made a face but didn’t try to get the last word in and instead, in a rare show of maturity, brushed off her minor verbal jab and made his way to the doorstep.  She stayed long enough to observe that it was Chris Argent who received him and long enough for Chris Argent to recognize her car and be aware of her presence.  She reversed the car out of the cul-de-sac and back onto the main roads, trying to mentally map out the roads of the neighborhood community.

Ten minutes into her leisure drive, she gets a text.  Frowning, she sends a text back.  Two seconds later, she gets another text.  She reads it and then swears as she throws her phone onto the passenger seat and turns the jeep around, “God damn it, Derek.”

At 4:22, she gets a text from Derek: You need to come to the abandoned train station.

At 4:22, she sends back: I’m a little bit busy here.

At 4:22, she gets a text from Derek: Now Stiles

II.

“I’m here.  What do you want?” Stiles demands as she shoves her hands into her pockets and steps gingerly over the threshold into the abandoned subway car.  A quick survey of the area tells her that not much has changed since she had last ventured here with Scott.  There are three Beta wolves perched on a window ledge behind him, each showing a remarkable amount of awareness despite their relaxed positions in the context of a near full moon.  How long ago has it been since they were bitten?  One week?  Three?  Their ease into the change is remarkable compared to Scott; then again, Scott was running around blind without guidance of any sort save for a best-friend who made the unreal logical leap from ‘mysterious, disappearing bite-injury’ to ‘congratulations, you’ve got lycanthropy.’

Derek, fun guy that he is, looks even more irritated than normal and his eyebrows are telling her that his frustration is her fault because she can’t find out why he was mad in the first place.  “Why was there no follow up?”

Stiles blinks as she tears her attention away from the far wall where an enlarged, written-on map of Beacon Hills was haphazardly taped, marked with, she now realizes, the sites of recent supposed animal attacks that showed no discernible pattern to its madness, “Follow up?  To what?”

Derek’s glower manages to perfectly convey how stupid he suspects she is of which she’s not because she’s the proclaimed ‘Brains’ half of the Scott-and-Stiles epic duo, “Your friend traced a text a week ago.  Are you telling me that he’s still not done?”  The three Betas are watching the exchange like an interesting Wimbledon match, deriving pleasure from witnessing someone get the fifth degree.  It takes a moment for Stiles to get on the same page before the light bulb is turned on above her head and she scratches the back of her head nervously as dread shakes at her like a bucket of cold ice down her back.

“I didn’t know that you wanted to hear the results,” she protests, indignant because her week of intense mind bleaching of that particular incident just became moot point.

Derek closes his eyes in an attempt to control his temper and rubs a hand over his face as if he could wipe off rage like a rag to a dusty table, “Stiles, I was there with you because I needed the information.  Why would I not want to know?”  His voice was trying, full of mocking despair and incredulous amusement, standard tone when dealing with her and her ‘unusual’ ways.  One could probably equate the rag that would ‘wipe the rage away’ to be his condescending, asshole attitude.  Correction: she claimed that it was condescending but her dad later claimed that it was the exact way that _he_ dealt with her.

Stiles flails in his general direction, “Dude!  You looked like you were going to tear me apart after Danny agreed.  If I could not remind you of that whole fiasco, maybe that offended air about you would be toned down to mildly irritated.”  As if she was preparing to flee, she steps back one step with her arms up in a placating gesture, “I mean, it’s perfectly fine to be offended, I don’t begrudge you of that, in fact,” she manages to dish out a smile that seemed to only made the situation worsen ten-fold, “I would be offended too if I had to…  err…”  Her gaze shifts from Derek to his Betas and she loses her verbal momentum and let her arms hang back down on her sides.  Because it would be very bad for Stiles’ continued goals for longevity to at least age thirty before she dies of a cardiac arrest from a sickness of too many werewolves to poke again at the maggot’s nest.  _We will do it again.  It’s time you sacrificed something for the pack, my dear Nephew._

Erica purses her lips while Isaac cocks his head in askance, “What are you talking about?”

And that’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it?  With a low released breath, as she figures out how to side-step the question, Stiles digs out her cellphone and starts flipping through her emails.  Though Danny had finished his hacking days ago, he didn’t meet her eyes for the entire week but had at least deigned to send her a nice little summary of his findings into her inbox with no further questions asked.  “I stole Jackson’s cell because last week Scott overheard him asking Danny questions like ‘I need this tape recording of me asleep on the full moon to be transferred to this hard drive.  How do I do that?’  It’s not his exact words but it was damn close enough.  Allison mentioned that he was even more of a jackass than before.  I thought it was because he finally broke up with Lydia but Allison said, ‘let’s look deeper.’  So I stole his cell.”  Stiles takes out Jackson’s phone and tosses it towards Isaac. “And I had Danny break into it and in his message inbox, I found that somebody has been texting him pictures of the victims roughly an hour before their time of death.”

Boyd raises an eyebrow, “Solid lead” he remarks with grudging admiration. 

Stiles preens. “Time of texts also correlates to somebody with a schedule based around school and after school activities,” she continues, standing a bit straighter, “I asked Danny if he could lend me a hand since he’s the expert in this type of stuff.  But he couldn’t find out who sent the texts to Jackson but he did find the location of where they were sent from.”  She pulls up Google Maps on her own phone and shows the little blue flag proudly, “The Beacon Hills High swimming pool.”

After a few moments of thought, Derek crosses his arms, “And what were you planning on doing with the information?”  He asks with restrained anger that causes the very air around him to thicken with tension.  The admonishment like an adult to a child or a boss to a subordinate created a tension can be felt through the air like crackling heat dancing across the skin or lightning without rain, leaving palpable goose bumps.

Chewing on her lower lip and uneasily rubbing her upper arms, Stiles glances up towards the light fixtures and then down towards her phone as she struggled to find words that won’t get her slammed against her steering wheel again, “I can’t just say, ‘Jackson, someone is controlling you.  You might not know it but you’re killing people… to death.’”

“Stay on topic, Stiles,” Derek frowns.

“Besides, the whole two-person operation going on here just makes everything so much harder and I---”

Derek growls, eyes flashing eerily as a warning sign like Peter Hale’s.  The Betas straightened in alarm, a hair trigger away from jumping into action.  Stiles’ words die in her throat with an undignified whimper, unable to speak until red eyes bled back into hazel.

“I… ahh…  I was just going to go over there and check it out.”  She admits, tugging nervously at a few strands of hair out of years of habit, “Usually the texts won’t be sent until later at night and it gives me a good chunk of time to scope out the scene with no one there, find clues on who the second person is.  Maybe even ambush the person.”  The Alpha retained an expression that cordoned his own opinions from the interested audience, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, forcing Stiles to try in vain and interpret the lack of anything on his face.  She finds herself growing defensive at the stretched silence, “You got any better ideas?  And no, you can’t stop me from going.”  She waves in the direction of the other wolves, “You know what Boyd said?  He’s so right.  This is the most solid lead I’ve got since this whole thing started and now we’re all like ‘when the hell did Jackson get bit?’ and others are all like ‘more animal attacks, Sheriff?  Have you really dealt with that cougar problem?’”

“Does your dad know about this plan of yours?”  Derek remains stony and unreadable.  “Does your dad know anything about what you’ve been up to?”  Her instincts, as she stared into the face of the unmovable predator, starts to cry out in fear in the form of hair rising on their ends.

“I’ll tell him later… much later…”  Stiles stares distrustfully at the older man; for a minute, engaging in silent communication, they have a war of the wills until Stiles reluctantly gives ground, “You’re not going to tell him are you?  He’s going to kill me.  You two don’t even get along anymore.  You can’t tell him!”  Derek’s face smoothed out into a lazy smirk, mimicking the one that his uncle favored to a frightening extent, “Oh come on!”  Using her dad as blackmail as means to get grounded via not only withholding information but also participating in stopping diabolical murder?  Not cool.  Despite the two men’s almost violent tete-a-tete, she knew that should Derek ever go on speed dial and say, “Sheriff, your daughter is about to do something amazingly suicidal and dumb,” it will spell the end of her freedom and get her dad increasingly embroidered into dangerous supernatural happenstance.  Father looks after daughter; daughter looks after father.  She throws her arms in the air in defeat, “…What do you want?”

At 6:12pm, she gets a text from Chris: I need to discuss many things with you in person.

At 8:12pm, Stiles sends back: How did you get this number?

At 8:15pm, Stiles follows up with: Just text me back.  Nobody monitors my calls and texts.

III.

Thirty minutes later, she finds herself driving her jeep full of werewolves as Derek preemptively separates them into two groups: Isaac and Boyd are going to searching the perimeter while she, Derek, and Erica are going to explore inside the building.  Enjoying the effects of Adderall in her system, Stiles zones in and out of the conversation as she ponders about the recent events. What Derek had said made sense: it’s not as though she’s mad that they underhandedly insisted on joining her in her expedition since she could always use the help of more paws… uh, claws… hands…  Well, it is going against Scott’s determination of completely separating themselves from the Hale pack which Stiles prefers because it meant that she won’t have to obey every command that Derek makes, smart or dumb (mostly dumb).  Autonomy works well for her. 

“Hey Stiles,” Isaac starts, poking her nape to get her attention, “How did you manage to get Danny to agree to help you?”  After all, doesn’t the guy try to ignore her presence as much as Lydia Martin?

Stiles’ hands begin tightening around the steering wheel until her knuckles whiten as she resolutely does not give a panicked glance at Derek in the shotgun, “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” Isaac leans back into the seat and accidentally elbows Erica in the ribs, starting a minor scuffle between the two until Boyd growls at them.

The sole human of the group and therefore the only one with true prey instincts tapped her fingers against the top of the wheel in agitation, “I’d rather not talk about the _Danny Incident_.  Even though it worked really well, everybody got an awkward turtle that day.”  She laughed nervously as they braked in front of a red light, “please don’t kill me, Derek.”

“We already agreed to never let it happen and to never talk about it.  We already broke one rule and I’ll let you off this one time,” Derek casually pointed out, eyes staring resolutely ahead and red enough that she could see their reflections on her windshield, “But if you break the other rule or,” his voice, despite hitting a low tenor, resounded in the small space of the jeep, “tell them in detail what happened in _your_ room with Danny,” Scott’s shirts, Stiles’ towel, blackmail with arrest reports, and a broken Mac <<< all unmentioned but heavily implied, “and I will rip your throat out… with my teeth,” he adds two seconds later and smiles in her general direction with fangs, all wide and fake.

She edges to the far side of the interior as she physically can which equates to three inches of progress and maybe a grand total of two feet of distance between them.  “I apologized to him too,” she tries to console him.  Because queer-baiting is bad; it is a very, very bad thing – as Derek had pounded into her head after the incident.  But god damn, she would be lying if she said that it wasn’t funny.  At the very least, it was one of those events where if it isn’t funny now, it’ll definitely be later, somewhere down the road, way down the road.  Stiles checks the review mirror, “Yo Boyd, if your eyebrows move any higher, they’ll disappear into your hairline.”

It is then decided silently and unanimously that the conversation, at least this line of inquiry, was closed and will never be poked at with any metaphorical stick ever again.  She parks her jeep under the cover of trees a block away from their destination, curbside without any street lights in their vicinity.  Stiles blinks rapidly, waiting patiently for her vision to adjust until Erica grabs her elbow and guides her down the sidewalk until they reach a familiar building.  As Derek breaks the lock on the back door (another potential set of breaking and entering charges for her permanent record – joy of all joys) Isaac and Boyd sink into the shadows and disappear, acting more like vampires than werewolves.  Derek moves in first, scopes out the territory with glowing red eyes, sniffs the air, “clear” and then makes the universal gesture of ‘come.’  Erica takes a few steps through the doorway before turning around and tossing an expectant look back; Stiles hesitates for another two seconds before following.

“What do you smell?”  The human murmurs as her fingers danced lightly across the glass of a vial she had tucked in her pocket, having planned to get some samples of that monster’s poison to do some tests for curiosity and science.

Derek scopes out the corners, pushing a creaking ladder that led to the rafters to the side that had hinges that needed to be oiled, “There is at least one person, male.  He was here yesterday and his scent is settled enough for me to know that he’s been here on a semi-regular basis for at least the past month.”

“Semi-regular meaning…”

Derek glances back, “a couple times a week for about an hour each.”

Stiles gives a low whistle and keeps to Erica’s heels, said girl had somehow procured an industrial flashlight from somewhere on her body.  “Your noses are that strong?”  Derek grunts and turns away; Erica’s grin leaks through her moue as she winks.  “That must suck…  Well, if you’re right, that would mean two things: since I highly doubt that a newly spawned pair of murderers would only send pics of victims to each other without any face to face, then this place isn’t their evil headquarters.”  She uses finger-quotations for the last word and did an about-turn to head to the pool, converses making soft padding sounds on the tile that complimented with the harsh clicks of Erica’s heels.  There were no disturbances in the pool or any prints of signs of human activity. “Then again, Jackson is not a people-person.”  Turning her attention to the handles by the diving board, she spots a viscous opaque liquid-like substance coating the underside, bending light.  As she allows a couple of drops to fall into her vial, she crows, “Bingo” and gestures wildly at Erica to come closer, “do you smell anything?”  After a delicate sniff, Erica shakes her head.  Stiles taps her lip in thought, “Shit.  The monster and its venom are scentless.”  She glances up, “You know what that means?”

Erica’s eyes flashes yellow, matching the shade of her hair and the various bangles that she had decided to hang from her wrist, “Jackson turns into a thing that is specifically designed to fight against werewolves.”  A little bit of her past-self, without the make-up and glamour and confident posture, leaks through when she shifts nervously from foot to foot.  It was a subtle movement, kept alive from an entire teenage lifetime of habit, “Derek said that lots of shifters from lots of legends have a competition for favor from the moon.  If it’s a shifter, then what does it look like?”  She levels an inquiring gaze at Stiles and cocks her head like what Isaac had done, distinctly wolf-like, “you saw it, didn’t you?  You said that it was some sort of reptile.”

“It’s not Jackson anymore,” Stiles caps the vial and checks for leaks.  Her eyes drift shut in an attempt to recall bad memories, “Scales were smooth and blue-green-ish tinted.  It looked like it came from a del Toro film but with that sort of ‘I can’t believe it’s not CGI’ feeling attached.  Head’s bald and round; its eyes were… yellow and lizard-y.”

“Human-sized and shaped but with a tail and could run on all-fours and up walls like a gecko?”  Erica asks with an uneasy tone lining her words, causing Stiles’ eyes to snap open in alarm.  Before Stiles can even open her mouth, Erica hisses, “Get behind me,” and grabs her arm with a clawed hand and yanks her back with such power that Stiles momentarily flies straight into the other girl’s cleavage before being hastily shuffled back.  She peers over the Beta’s right shoulder and manages to catch mere glimpses of the action and had to rely more on her sense of hearing.  A set of teeth and a pair of red eyes shine, moving fast that they leave track marks in the darkness.  Derek roars as one of them, wolf or monster, bodily impacts the wall.  The windows, all situated high in the building and surrounding all sides of the walls, shudder.  Stiles winces at the tell-tale sound of claws rendering flesh.  Seconds after the sounds of fighting died down, leaving nothing but the strain of heavy breathing; Erica ventures closer, shakily sweeping her flashlight left and right against the walls before landing on a familiar prone form.  “Oh no,” the sight of Derek supine on the ground was a death knell for both of them.  _Well, well, well, a creature native to South America, a Kanima._

The battle was over before Stiles could regain her wits.  It was over in seconds; it was an ambush, it was a freaking ambush.  The monster was lying in wait like a pit adder.  She runs a hand across her scalp, tugging anxiously at her strands as she attempts to calm her hysterics and felt the need to inform that, “This is like the plot of every single bad Sci-fi film that I’ve ever watched in my short life.  _Alien vs. Predator_ but with more teen drama and sass.”

“Shut up,” Erica grits out, words guttural from the fangs present with her Beta form, “I don’t know if Jackson… it…. can understand us.”  Truthfully, the creature looked like it had bypassed the modern day school curriculum on language and went straight to Sun Tzu and his propensity to educate upon the virtues of gathering all thy enemies into one place before smiting them…  Or was that from the Bible?  Erica sweeps the flashlight back over to Derek’s body – at least he’s still breathing, either that or a ghost is doing CPR.  “I’ll distract it and you run and get Derek and get the hell out of Dodge.”

Since when did Erica Reyes become so self-sacrificing?  Martyr is not in fashion (Lydia had once informed her). Stiles retreats slowly as she chews on the inside of her cheek, eyes darting left and right as she hurries to take inventory of what she has on her person.  Her steady retreat was stopped by the vice grip the Beta werewolf has on her arm, having never really let her go since the initial assault, “Hear me out - you give me enough time to land one hit and then we’ll play this by ear.”

Erica’s grip tightens until Stiles hisses in pain as she insists, “We’re not leaving Derek behind.”  Stiles tugs insistently on her arm until Erica releases her, leaving behind faint marks that would surely bruise – that is if they can survive _this_ intact til the next morning.

“We aren’t,” she reluctantly confirms as she warily eyes the thing’s claws clicking on the tiled floor rhythmically as it approaches.  “And I never said we were.”    _Unretractable_ , her mind unhelpfully supplies with the congenial voice of David Attenborough, _like the cheetah for traction across the great Serengeti. This characteristic is usually accompanied by a harder than average density in order to prevent wear and erosion to the quick._

They wait for the monster to come within striking distance, on the balls of their feet, knees slightly bent and arms in a standard guarding position.  The creature has Jackson’s smirk and Jackson’s confidence but not his arrogance nor any of his mental acuity.  Stiles wonders if Jackson was human enough to keep his favored method of attack, a lunge towards his opponent’s left torso before knocking them over (a known fact from lazy afternoons on the lacrosse field observing the players with Scott on the bench, at least until Finstock declared that if she was going to sit by a team member, then she is a team member, and started her on suicide runs).  She can palpate her own heart beat through her rib cage, drowning out the sibilant hisses from the lizard.  With the new found adrenaline rush in her body, she can’t stop shaking (in fear? in anticipation?)  Erica snarls; the straining atmosphere snaps like a whip.  The screech from the monster reminds Stiles of metal striking against metal, nails of a chalkboard, hair-raising and used to induce fear and freeze the prey in its place.  For what it’s worth, the call does work; it’s just that Stiles has a tendency to blow through fear like firefighters through infernos.  She springs to her right, flanking the reptile as Erica continues to demand its attention by swiping at its eyes on the other end and getting a good kick with her heels into the softness right below its sternum. 

“Careful.  Careful!  Hey!  Ugly!”  Stiles yells as she digs her hands into her vest pocket; timing it so that as soon as the creature turns its head, she flings a handful of Mountain Ash towards its mouth, coating the air with black dust.  The ash burns and starts melting through the skin like concentrated acid, leaving behind rising smoke trails that carries a vague scent of Molotov-Peter.  Its claws frantically scratch at its own scales to rid itself of the burning temporarily distracted from its surroundings.  She takes a moment to stare in disbelief, “That worked.  I can’t believe that worked…  Erica!  Where are you?”  The werewolf grabs onto her bruising arm but her body was too full of adrenaline to even register the pain, “Erica.  Oh my god.  Oh my god.  _Oh my god_.  Holy…”  As Stiles is dragged along, she glances back, “It’s already back up?  What?  _What?_ WHAT?!  Erica, go.  Go.  Go go go go go!” 

They sprint past the monster toward Derek, each grabbing an arm and hauling him up just as he begins to stir and snap into attention.  “Alpha,” Erica ventures cautiously, clawed hand hovering an inch above his face, “Can you move?”

“No,” Derek scowls after a couple of struggles, clearly unwilling to admit to his temporary incapacitation, “It managed a clear strike at the back of my neck.”  Stiles closes her eyes in despair.  The strongest fighter of their trio just became a liability.  The reptile stalks towards them on all fours, strategically placing its body between them and the sole exit, its tail swaying back and forth like a pendulum.  Upon closer inspection, she noted that Derek had managed to get some good hits to its spinal area and that it was bleeding profusely off-reddish green from its head and shoulders, staining the ground as it walked.  It moves in a way that implies a heavy blow to its ribs, favoring the opposite side to lean its weight on its legs.  It’s a pity that werewolves don’t have their own brand of paralytic poison; then again, dealing with Alpha Peter would have been that much more of a pain.

“I’m going to turn you into a Prada bag and gift it to Lydia,” Stiles swears as she lets go of Derek and takes a deliberate step forward, gave one moment of pause to contemplate the stupidity of her plan, and then lunges forward. To her credit, the lizard, having not expected her to initiate the frontal charge, freezes momentarily.   Stiles spins on the balls of her feet, angles her body away from the late counter strike and throws out the remnants from her little zip-lock of Mountain Ash.  Again, the monster begins to burn and thrashes about in an attempt to rid the powder from its face.  She darts behind, away from the claws’ reach and aimed a kick towards its back and runs off towards the ladder before she could hear the ensuing splash as the monster slips into the water.

Ladies and gentleman: Stiles Stilinski: kicking ass and taking names.

Erica had only managed to get the Alpha halfway up the ladder and seems to be slowing down; a combination of the waxing gibbous moon that saps a werewolf’s strength due to an increased effort to keep control and another reason that Stiles realizes as soon as she awkwardly hooks her fingers around Derek’s belt loops and pulled.  Derek is _heavy_ , muscular rage compacted inexplicably into a human shaped container of angst and it takes both of their combined efforts and a lot of synchronized force to haul him two stories up onto the metal rafters with questionable structural integrity, questionable structural integrity meaning that she could feel the protesting creaks and groans under her feet as loose bolts causes the beams to tremble beneath her feet and dust to shake every time she takes the slightest step. 

Erica guides them through the mazes of the upper corridors, “This way!” and “Over here!” were punctuated with various, “Watch your step, a screw is missing.”  The monster, severely wounded by now, was progressing at a slow rate.  Stubborn asshole, thy name is Jackson.  Stiles briefly weighs the risk and reward ratio between killing the creature (because all she would really have to do is wait at the top of the ladder and then kick it off; the fall might kill it) and getting just the slightest bit of venom on her skin to turn her back into a sitting duck.  If she had more Mountain Ash left.  If she got bit by Peter and inherited werewolf strength.  If Jackson hadn’t begged off a bite from some Alpha, a problem that still needs to be addressed sometime in the near future.  If.  If.  If.  If.  If.

Nobody has been up here since the last maintenance check that probably occurred at the founding of this school and the clouds of dust were tickling her nose; Erica had already sneezed twice.  Her fingers were numb from how hard she had curled them over the paralyzed Alpha’s collar for a better grip hold.  Her heels dug into the grating as they scurried swiftly over to the far side where they can buy themselves some time.   They might just get out of this alive and intact.

Of course, life hates her guts with a fiery passion of a thousand burning suns and never allows her to have any nice things.  Later, when Stiles takes time to think about it, she’ll guess that Jackson’s partner in these murder rampages had figured out their presence and decided to cut his losses and bomb the place (or maybe that this was planned to be ground zero all along and Jackson’s partner and Jackson had always been a step ahead of them).  No, seriously, a bomb was thrown through the glass ceiling and lodges itself in the supporting beams by the walls.  The sound of shattering glass had caused Erica and Stiles to look up in alarm at the small innocuous thing sailing in the air, small enough to fit into ones’ arms.  Before anyone can even adjust to the sudden introduction, the modified pressure cooker explodes. 

 _There’s grass beneath her feet: it smells of blood and burnt flesh._ The bomb shakes the foundations of the building and the shockwave throws the three of them to the opposite railings, jarring the chains keeping the rafters suspended.  Gingerly getting up on all fours, she army crawls over to the far wall, sparing a glance at Erica who was barely conscious and breathing, feeling pain radiate from the back of her knees and shoulder.  _She washed her hands five times and threw out the clothes that she wore that night, claiming that they smelled too much of ash._  The floor tilts and moans and begins to drop beneath her.  _She visited the Hale house a week later and surveyed the area: noting the soft patch of dirt and the ring of wolfsbane that were beginning to wilt, a dying grave marker._ Her stomach plummets, forcing her to reach out to grab something, anything, to prevent her fall to her death.

The pain from the ringing in her ears that grated on her senses forces her out of her hallucinations.  She reaches out blindly just as one side of the metal structure falls and grabs onto Derek’s wrist just as he tumbled over the side but his weight pulls her over as well.  Their fall was temporarily broken by Erica’s sudden grasp on her ankle, giving them ten seconds of stunned silence at their plight.  For ten seconds, Stiles and Derek hang in midair, swaying like a parody of a pendulum, the only sound they could hear was Erica’s breathing slowing.  Then, the Beta wolf’s grip weakens, slacks, and slips.

Plummeting is not a pleasant experience; the intense sense of vertigo turns into sheer terror.  Here, she has no grounding.  Here, in midair, as her stomach begins to summersault and morph into a much needed scream that she forcefully contained, she wraps her arms Derek around the waist and flips over so that her back hit the waters first, breathing out at the exact moment of impact. 

Bubbles erupt all around as pain spikes up from her spine and through her arms.  Her eyes snap open: on her left was a black shadow sinking down and on her right was the distorted light shining through the water.  Submerged thirteen feet under water in the deep end, she looks up and realizes that it’s so pretty and peaceful here it’s frightening.  She pushes off the concrete floor of the deep end, took a handful of Derek’s shirt, and hauled them both up, kicking strenuously with her sneakers until she breaks through the surface.  Gasping for breath, she drags them both to the side of the pool and props Derek up by the diving board, avoiding the residual venom hanging onto the bars, just as he started to flex his hands and arms, and pulls herself out of the water like a retarded mermaid.

She crawls on all fours and spits out a mouthful of chlorinated water before collapsing forward, unhearing of Derek’s panic, of the monster’s cries, of the double doors blasting out as Boyd and Isaac rush forward, because _she is done.  She is fucking done_.  Therefore, in the face of danger and death, she curls up and closes her eyes, hoping to catch a few seconds, hopefully minutes, and allows the world to spin.  _Why do you help this pack, Stiles?_

IV.

_You’re a very interesting girl…  I expected nothing from you and yet you offer opportunities of everything.  You’re so adaptable when faced with open curtains to a window that most people will never see, such a good, little girl.  You have a beautiful mind and it has a spark._

“--- Awake?”

_And here the spark offers a second… no, third… chance.  Tell me, Stilinski, what do you know about Life?  Death?  Magic?  Are you curious?_

“Don’t stress her right now.  What else did you find?”

Stiles jolts up from her unconscious state, feeling her heart pound against her rib cage, feeling like someone had punched her so hard that she lost breath.  _It’s not tangible but it’s based on the tangibility of that fear but it’s bigger and ineffable._ Derek and all his Beta wolves were conversing in a group, huddled just two meters from where she sat, propped up against the wall.  “--- found that phone right before the explosion,” Boyd stands at the center of the group, scrolling through a smart phone, “---Matt Daehler.  He’s a member of the lacrosse team and photography club.  And…” 

To Stiles’ right were her two first aid kits.  She reaches for one and props it open, taking inventory and pulling out the alcohol and hydrogen peroxide bottles.

(Something is bothering me.  I have an idea of what’s coming but it isn’t agonizing.  The feeling disguises itself as concern, like it is not important, but I can’t stop thinking about it.)  “Scott and Mr. Argent called on Stiles’ phone,” Isaac mutters, “Jackson doesn’t know what he’s doing.  He’s being guided.”  (It’s a bit like someone took a thin knife and dragged it across my arm, lightly grazing my skin.)  “--- the Master and the Kanima.”  (It hurts but not enough.)

(It only itches.)  Stiles hisses as she pours alcohol over the bleeding mass on her leg.  “Are you OK?”  Derek stands over her with a hand on her shoulder, slowly absorbing the pain, handing over a thick roll of gauze with his other.

“No.”

“Matt already took a picture of the next person.  Johnny Langford.  He was in the same graduating class as Camden and also on the swim team,” Isaac continues, making his way over.  “I think he’ll die either tonight or tomorrow.”  Stiles takes a closer look at the three Betas and how any and all of their wounds had probably healed over five minutes after the fact.  She then glances down at her various scratches and bruises and makes a disgusted noise.

“Can’t take that chance,” Derek replies, turning his head back to address his group.  _I’m not shaken.  I can’t falter._ “Matt Daehler was willing to let the building fall with us and Jackson in it in order to hide his tracks.”

“I haven’t seen Johnny since Camden’s funeral,” Isaac shuffles his feet and turns away.

(But I can’t breathe either).  “Johnny Langford works at a club on Fifth Street until three in the morning every weekday,” Stiles recalls, feeling the familiar narcotic like disappearance of her senses as the black veins on the Alpha’s arm extend to his shoulder.  “I can get us in.”  (It’s really hard to breathe.  It’s stiffening and muted and dangerous.)

(It’s like I’m walking through hell.)  She shuts the first aid kit and makes a note to buy more supplies at the local convenience store.  She gingerly stands up and test her limbs: no pain, not enough to cripple her at least, and no blood leaking out of any orifice.  (And what do you do when you walk through Hell?)  Stiles picks up her phone and stares mournfully at the screen, still sputtering but in its last throes of death.  The wolves stare at her with contemplating gazes.  Erica shrugs her shoulders, “Well then,” utilizing two words to imply the work that they have ahead of them for the night isn’t over.  Stiles shakes off Derek’s touch and runs a nervous hand through her hair.

(You keep going.)

At 9:30pm, she gets a text from Chris: Assuming that the company you keep won’t be able to unlock your phone, I’ll start then.  There is this idea that violence begets violence.  Once you start, you can’t stop.  It only escalates.

At 9:33pm, she sends back: So how do you stop it?

At 9:33pm, she gets a text from Chris: Do you know what an Alpha Pack is?

At 9:34pm, she sends back: No

At 9:54pm, she gets a text from Chris: How about this?  Tomorrow is your school’s lacrosse game.  I’ll see you there.

At 9:55pm, she sends back: Tomorrow.  Sure.

V.

Trying to get Derek and his betas into the club where Johnny Langford worked at was easy.  Trying to explain where in the world she got her connections that allowed them in with minimal fuss and admission fees was a bit harder, even with the added bonus of how physically appealing the group was.  Especially when the bouncer did a double take and then tried to give her the bro-iest high-five ever, calling her, “that little chick with that kid in the Halloween furry get-up suit.”  Then the drag queens walked over, having spotted her, and started cooing over her, asking if she wanted any more of their… stuff for sale.  After some amount of asking, the Drag queens dragged the werewolves in to have a good time.  And then Danny, socializing on the dance floor, happened to glance over and immediately his eyes bugged over when Stiles, encompassed in leather, fur, and the smell of really nice Chanel perfume, offered a two finger salute from the doorway.

So yes, if this had been anybody else, Stiles would also be the one demanding for an explanation.  The only problem is: she doesn’t quite remember what happened.  “So when Scott first got bit, we basically assumed Lycanthropy, as unusual as it was.  Take all of the evidence in and remove all of the contrary explanations and what I got was: werewolf.  And we didn’t have any sort of guidance save for this one guy who was creepy around his burnt down house and was later arrested.”  She offered a cheeky grin, “my fault, by the way.”  She wiggled back into her stool and nursed her soda, not feeling in any mood to relax and party.  Isaac and Erica were somewhere in the crowd of bodies, blending in.  Derek was upstairs, asking for information from the drag queens that would hopefully give some information on how to get closer to Johnny Langford.  Johnny Langford was on the opposite side of the bar, swamped with orders from the underage and desperate.

At least wonderful Boyd was here keeping her company.  “Go on.”

“I decided to do some experiments to test Scott’s new body.  Metabolism.  Strength.  Senses.  It was almost like that obscure television show with Sentinels and stuff.  At one point, we drove to a hidden place and decided to test his alcohol tolerance.  I had some of my dad’s scotch with me.  Single-malt, good stuff.  In conclusion, I got drunk and he didn’t.”  She brushed her bangs away, “After that, it’s like The Hangover.  I woke up the next morning on a red couch surrounded by strangers lauding Scott as a hero and I as the one who is loved and feared thereafter.  I also have some strange pics on my phone that hints at someone using small fireworks, making Molotov Cocktails, and a romp into the woods to stare at this ancient, gnarly tree.  I get random texts from Victoria, Yulia, and Abbie Jean,” she tilted her head towards the stairs where Derek and the drag queens had disappeared to, “and I reply back because common courtesy and all that.  We’re friends. They’re nice.”

“Did you ever ask what happened?”

“I’m too scared to,” Stiles admitted.

After an hour or two, she leaves Boyd by the bar and heads out, giving a perfunctory nod towards the bouncer and heads back to her waiting jeep.  The air was warm and slightly heavy.  The moon was a crescent, like a scythe, slicing through the clouds that were beginning to provide some cover.  It might rain soon.  First world problems: she is jealous of everyone having fun but she doesn’t have the energy to party.  The entire fight for her survival at the high school pool seemed like a fading nightmare that would disappear from her psyche immediately after she woke up.  Within five minutes, she’ll be good as new.  _Stop complaining.  You identified both the Kanima and his master._ Stiles straightened up and winced as the jeep’s side mirror dug into her back.  That’s right; she has information now that would be useful.  She should…  She puls out her cell.

Somehow, her phone still makes its occasional sputters of life, crackling and whining, screen flickering, repeatedly turning on and off until the repeating robotic sound of _droid_ was aggravating enough to make the thought of putting the thing out of its misery appealing.  But her dad does pick up after the fifth attempt to call and answers with a grievous tone.  “What did you do, Stiles?”  Not even the perfunctory ‘Hello.  I should fake my surprise as soon as I hear that you got caught up in something bad.  Again.’

For a moment, she wonders whether she should stall and lie; then she takes a deep breath and crosses her fingers in hopes that when this whole thing blows over, from whatever bloodthirsty thing there is out there, that there are enough pieces of her for Scott to put back together, “The serial killer is a guy in my class named Matt Daehler but the one who is actually killing is Jackson Whittemore but it’s against his will – supernatural mojo messed him up.  I don’t even think he remembers.”  She belatedly realizes that she probably should’ve accompanied her findings with an intro that would’ve eased the information more smoothly.  There was silence on the other end, punctuated by a loud sigh, a signal to encourage her to continue, “Both of the guys’ phones have pictures of the victims right before they die which were sent from Daehler to Whittemore.  We think that the texts are how Whittemore is being controlled.”

“We?”

Stiles taps her fingers restlessly against the window pane, “Derek and his wolves.  You know who they are.  I only got--- …Hello? ” And she hears a dial tone because her phone has been bitching for the entire night and it wasn’t like an important communication to law enforcement was going to force it to be haved.  Does her dad think that she purposely hung up?

Should she go to the station or not go to the station?  Decisions.  Decisions.  On one hand, she’ll be ensuring that all the new evidence will be in her dad’s hands, in responsible hands that legally can do something about it.  On the other hand, Derek expressively told her not to drive away, seeing that she’s their only getaway if things go south.  But werewolves can run farther and faster…  But they don’t need to attract any more attention than what they’re getting, considering the general atmosphere of this town.  Everyone’s on high alert and reported sightings of a teenage gang running at the speed of a car isn’t going to help matters.

She groans and stretches in the driver’s seat, trying to find a good position for maximum comfort.  She’s been here for hours.  At this point, she’d rather watch paint dry than stay where she is, staring at the club from the opposite side of the road. A group of scantily clad women share cigarette smoke.  Nearby, a long line of clubbers were waiting to see if they could be cleared for entrance. She’s tired and sore and nursing a massive headache that came from the feeling of chlorinated water in her upper nasal cavities.  Sometimes, even with the knowledge that the other werewolves were doing their part in this whole adventure, she feels like she gets the short end of the straw for every plan that saves the world, or at least Beacon Hills.  Her body itches for movement: she’s pretty close to doing suicide runs around the around the block just to get the jittery feeling out of her limbs.  She forgot her Adderall dosage again, hasn’t she?  Her ass is numb; it’s been numb for hours.

Johnny Langford is having a hell of a time.  If Dionysus debauchery is the definition of happiness for him, then she can’t judge him harshly.  The CD player that had played a selected compilation of songs from The Whos sputters until Stiles kicks the panel and then falls silent.  Then the music starts again from the top of the track in soft tones, barely heard from the noises emanating from the bar.

Hours pass her by like water through fingertips. 

In the middle of her mindless haze, Erica knocks on her window, jolting her back into reality.  Her makeup remains perfect, not a hair out of place, “Johnny Langford’s shift is finished.”  She slides into the passenger seat, “The car is in the parking lot around the corner.  I saw him pull out.  We’re going to need to hurry, keep him in our sights, and make sure that he stays alive.  Derek’s orders.”

“Great,” Stiles manages a weak smile as she slips the keys into the ignition, “big Alpha wants us to have fun together, neh?”

The other girl doesn’t reply.Stiles sighs, looks ahead, and concentrates on her job.  Within seconds, Johnny’s car was still within her head lights area and the guy somehow hasn’t noticed that he was being tailed during his entire trip back.  They drive for another half hour in complete stilted silence.  Occasionally, Stiles flips on the high beam to get a better view of the road ahead.  The road was smooth, absent of potholes and litter, casting an eerie glow that contrasted with the night sky.  Erica tenses in a way that causes one to assume a mental state of high alert to life-threatening danger.  Stiles side-glances over, quizzical.  Crickets chirp in the tall grass.  Langford’s car was blasting music loud enough that the bass could be felt in their ribs.  Stiles involuntarily twitches at a perceived shadow in her review mirror.  _…Why did Langford’s car stop?_ “I…”  Erica frowns, peering over her left shoulder and flexing her hands, “You…  I…”

Stiles never quite figures out exactly what Erica wanted to say because a split second later, Jackson the Kanima crashes into the driver’s side of the jeep, hurtling from her blind spot with enough force to shove the vehicle off the overpass.

VI.

Minutes later, when Stiles coughs through a cloud of dust and smoke and rubs her throat, hoarse from her scream.  As she struggles to realign her bearings with the sky and the road, Erica gingerly sits up, rubbing her head and reaching blindly for Stiles’ cell phone to attempt to make some calls.  Miraculously, Stiles wearily notes, her jeep had landed on all four wheels.  She dimly wonders if it was still working.  She smacked her lips, tasted bitter dust, and winced when broken glass dug into her skin as she shifted, trying to move out of her car, and ended up hanging undignified halfway out of the window.

“…tow truck?”  Erica murmured on the phone, still dazed, “- helpful.  Thanks.”  She hangs up and collapse back into a pile of werewolf pain.  “…Fuck.” She groans and spits a mouthful of blood out the window, some of it lands on the glass.  She starts picking glass pieces out of her matted hair.  The Jeep whistles under the hood in a semi-sentient, despondent manner.

Stiles takes inventory, brushing her tongue over her teeth to check for gaps, testing out her spine and joints, though the lack of pain can be deceiving.  Her dad is going to force her to get an X-ray at some point or another once he gets word of the new development.  Personally, she would prefer an MRI on her brain, quite certain that she has gained enough trauma that pro-sports, especially American Football players, get over the course of their career.  “What happened to Langford?” She manages to whisper as she craned her neck back and noted the placement of the moon: high, bright, white, dangerous.

“Dead.  I can see him from here.”  Erica pauses, “I can see half of him.”

Stiles closes her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rant:  
> I liked this show when it contained cheeky black-humor. Unfortunately, the 3rd season sucks balls- like, a bag of dicks. All I'm seeing is this mish-mash of absolute shit that doesn't make sense, events that should have a follow through but doesn't (save for the one time Allison realized that she had fucked up in the 2nd season), deaths that should be acknowledged but are quickly forgotten, characters that are the poster child for Mary-Sue and Gary-Stu. --> Alpha twins that can merge into a super alpha and believe that they are hot shit? People are breaking up and hooking up in the midst of serial, ritualistic murders? Deucalion as an alpha of alphas (an alfalfa) claiming to be a demon wolf. A dark-druid? A dark-tree? Derek's serious and problematic preference for evil woman? Suddenly kitsunes and onis are coming to town? A shadow-kitsune is possessing Stiles? Your dead mom temporarily comes back to life? A were-coyote is someone's long lost daughter? And possibly a were-jaguar (or whatever Kate is) is coming back like a vengeful evil ex? What in the world is the Alpha Pack doing in season 3B? Gerard? Where's the continuity? What are the actual citizens of the town doing? Is the FBI that useless? Is this the World's Fair for the paranormal, showcasing from every region on earth? Is this a westernized Korean drama? Are you fucking kidding me? This show is so stupid! And you know what, after this, I'm washing my hands of this complete hot mess. I'm glad that some of you are still reading my works, or even just reading to the end of this long paragraph. But I'm done. Just gone, gone and... gone.


	2. Hypervigilance

## don't jump out of the frying pan

I.

How in the world did it come to this?  How far off the beaten road has Stiles ventured to not blink an eye when everything, once again, turned to shit? 

Picture this in your mind.  Breathing shallowly, Stiles is staring cross-eyed down the end of a gun barrel, held securely by one Matt Daehler.  To her right is Jackson in his semi-lizard form with no amount of sentience in his yellow eyes.  To the far left corner is her dad, the Sheriff, slumped against the wall from a debilitating blow to the head.  Jackson prowls along the walls in that strange off-human-like manner, searching the windows for any unwanted visitors.  Derek’s eyes are glowing red.  A small stream of blood from the dead bodies of policemen and women begins trickling into the room from the corridor where they were piled up, courtesy of Jackson.  Matt smiles and adjusted his grip on the gun, slippery from the blood coated fingers, eyes glinting with a subtle madness, “Now where were we?”

An hour ago, Stiles was being extricated from her wreckage by Derek after the Kanima had unceremoniously body-slammed the jeep off the overpass.  Erica’s howls had apparently alerted her Alpha via supernatural pack bond.  After making sure that she was fully healed, Derek had sent his beta back home for some much needed rest.  Then the Alpha manhandled Stiles into his Camaro and drove them to the police station, all the while switching between displeased growls and muttered insults on her intelligence to which Stiles had gamely protested, “How many times do I have to say this, wolf?  Between Scott and I, I am not the stupid one. In fact, between any pair, I will always be the smart one.”  She peers at him, jaw clenched, “Besides, who holds the brains behind this operation?”  She had mockingly lowers her tone to mimic that of Derek’s, “We should totally split up.  Grr.  Listen to me cuz I’m the Alpha.”

“It would’ve worked if you had done your part,” he snarled as he slammed on the breaks.  Stiles glanced out of the window in surprise.  They already arrived.  Derek had unbuckled his seat belt and made a move to reach over and unbuckle hers, aborting the attempt under her incredulous glare.  Instead, he cleared his throat and pretended that the past five seconds had not happened, “You had,” he hissed, narrowing his eyes, “One job.”

She had scoffed, “Making sure a guy doesn’t get killed by a monster, I know.”

“No,” he had corrected, “To work with Erica to not get a guy killed.”

Stiles had her well-aimed retorts on the tip of her tongue such as ‘I didn’t see you doing your job Mr. I’ll Seduce Langford for Reconnaissance,’ felt a vein in her temple twitch, and pushed down her temper.

Her dad was waiting for them in his office in the Sheriff Department, sitting behind his desk, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed, hard lines edged against the contours of his face.  The subsequent discussion between them was essentially an exchange of information with a slow burn of tension between Derek and her dad.  “If what you said is correct and this Matt Daehler is the culprit, I’m going to need slightly more than just some cell phones to implicate him,” the Sheriff muttered, rubbing the skin between his eyes when she and Derek were done with their story.  “We could use it to get a warrant or to question him further but this alone is not enough.”

“But… But the pictures are right there!” Stiles gestured at the incriminating evidence sitting in labeled plastic bags.

“And if you actually explain it in court, will it hold up?  How will you add in the paranormal into your explanation?”  Sheriff Stilinski walked up to the far wall which held a bulletin of old photos of the victims and a map marked with where the murders took place.  “Are you going to be an anonymous tipper?  Is there clear evidence that they participated in the murderers and not that there was some correlation?  If you’re not careful, you might become a suspect.”

Stiles deflated from her previous indignant anger.  “But I wouldn’t…”  She stretched upward and winced.  Derek reached over to take her hand, leeching more pain.  Her dad turned around and witnessed the black veins rising from Derek’s touch, his eyes narrowing as he recalled facts from his Werewolf 101 class right after the Kate Argent and Peter Hale catastrophe.

“I take it you’re not going to explain to me where you got those bruises?”  He casually asked.

Stiles sheepishly shrugged under her father’s scrutiny, “It isn’t like last time.  I don’t need the hospital.”

“You had a concussion and a flail chest last time,” her dad looked unimpressed.  “And you were pretty convinced that all you needed was a good night sleep.”

“At most, I have whiplash,” she attempted to assure him.  “But that’s not important.  You can lecture me and ground me later.”

“Fine, then,” The Sheriff sighed, “There are dead bodies popping up all over Beacon Hills and the only thing that might hint at a motive is that they all used to be part of the BHHS 2006 swim team.  Why would someone go out of their way to use this Kanima to destroy a swim team?”

“Well, that’s obvious,” Stiles replied with false bravado, “The swim team sucks.  Have you seen their track record after 2006?  We never made it to the playoffs for regionals – maybe someone had some really twisted idea that it was their fault, the old swim teams.  People have killed for less.”

They spent the next half an hour watching the video recordings of the areas where the murders had occurred, squinting at the poor resolution, trying to decide if they found a deal breaker.  And then, without warning, Matt Daehler and his pet broke down the front door of the station and promptly tore the place apart.  Two minutes later, Stiles is staring at the end of the barrel: a long, dark tunnel with sure death at the end.  “Now where were we?”  Hysteria bubbles deep in her chest; she keeps it down with sheer force of the will.

 _If only I could have gotten closer to you, my dear, within biting distance.  Unfortunately, there’s only so much I could do with our limited contact with each other before my nephew snatched you up._ Stiles dimly wonders why this was her life.  _I smell blood outside in the halls.  This boy has killed your father’s workers.  Does that make you angry?  Does that make you angrier than him, who still simmers from trauma ten years ago?  To be honest, I prefer to drown than to burn.  Drowning isn’t too bad.  I’ve been in worst.  It could always get worse.  Now calm down and don’t say anything to provoke him._

“—and what do I find in Beacon Hills?”  Matt laughs, pointing his gun (Berretta handgun) at each of them in turn, “a veritable Halloween party.  Werewolves, hunters, Kanimas…  What are you, Stiles?”  The spot light is on her.  _Don’t say anything stupid._

“I…” she pauses dramatically, “am Catbug.  Anytime.  Anywhere.”

_Oh my god.  You have the survival instincts of a woman in a horror film._

Matt considers her before making a subtle motion with his head.  Jackson disappears from Matt’s side and Stiles feels a familiar sharp pain at the back of her neck.  She uses the last of her energy to offer her best stink eye, “you… little… shit…”

_… Wake up…_

_Wake up…_

_Wake up, you idiotic girl._

She comes to with knots in her neck (this whole blacking out and waking up thing is no longer a coincidence; it’s a god damn pattern) breathing in incense smoke… frankincense, sandalwood, and maybe… wolfs bane?  Sounds of snarling and ripping of flesh cause her hair to stand on end.  No one is screaming.  After debating for a while of whether or not she should pretend to play dead, she army crawls to the doorway, flinching at the sounds of bullets, scattering horizontally at window level.  _Suppressing fire is usually used for frontal assaults._   A throwing knife is embedded into the wall three feet above her head.  Who the hell still uses throwing knives?  _Argent_.  The door is open, giving her a clear view of the carnage.  Amongst the deputies, necks all broken in an unnatural angle, lays the body of Mrs. Argent, Allison’s mom… She sports two long claw marks across her neck, her entire front soaked with blood.  Her eyes are still open.  _How fetching._ What in the world was she doing here?  _Nothing good._   Allison’s not going to like this.  _You love speaking in understatements._

As she drags her dad’s prone form (breathing but bleeding profusely) down the hall, into a room by the holding cells, she tries to devise a strategy for a safe retreat and to not think about the corpses piling up by the door to the entranceway.  She moves slowly, every fiber of her muscle screaming, ‘Just stop and rest.  We can’t take it anymore.  Please, a small break.’

The Kanima and his master?  Where is Derek?  _Forget about him. He can take care of himself._

Stiles tumbles out of the window and gingerly eases her dad through; making sure that he isn’t cut by the stray shards of glass.  She ducks into the tree line, taking advantage of their canopy and undergrowth.

Moving in the opposite direction, heading straight into the warzone was an army of men and women with high quality weaponry.  She sees Principal Argent leading the group as they surrounded the station, dressed all in black, holding himself to the expectations of a brutal leader, barking orders, the street light making sharp shadows on his frightful mien.  The air is heavy – but it’s probably not from the rain.  Still, she’s alive, miraculously.  Fifteen minutes later, gasping for breath, she slowly makes her way to the street a block away from the activity where the calls of sirens and people become no more than an irritating buzz and stood on the boulevard, staring at the ground as the blood began to stain the grass, wondering if Lydia would answer her phone and give her step by step directions on how to hotwire a vehicle… a police van, to be exact.

“… Lydia, darling, strawberry blonde goddess, light of my life…  So you’re probably wondering why I’m calling you…”

II

Deaton opens the door to the veterinary clinic, eyebrows high in his forehead at the sight of a petite teenager lugging her unconscious father, both bleeding from various wounds.  _Oh, it’s our favorite emissary._ Stiles allows her wheezes to die down before clearing her throat, stumbling over her words as the Sheriff stirs, “So… uh…  I know you work with pets but the hospital had all these guys running around with assault rifles and sawed off shotguns and Mrs. McCall had thrown me out of the building before anyone could see me because according to her, they’re unofficially looking for me… so… like, help?”

“Stiles?!  Is that Stiles?!”  Stiles startles at Scott’s voice.  “Stiles!”  Wordlessly, Deaton steps aside, revealing Scott craning his neck around the door frame and Derek sitting on the operating table.  “---making wolfs bane power pills that we’re going to try to slip into---”  Derek looks terrible; Derek looks like someone who had decided to jump into a blender.  Derek is glaring at the opposite wall like it had done something personal and unforgivable against him. “---the hunters are not only living at the Argents’ place but also that sketchy Motel 6 off the highway.  I have Isaac checking out the place---”

Dr. Deaton wordlessly takes the Sheriff off of her hands and together, they prop him onto a stretcher and wheel him into an adjacent hallway. The doctor slowly presses gauze against the worst of it and dabs at other shallower cuts with alcohol soaked pads. 

Scott is still talking.  “--- told me everything.  We all think that Matt Daehler got taken by Principal Argent.  Matt is either killed by the Hunters or changed into a Kanima like Jackson and looking for a master.  Derek had spotted scales on his back.  We don’t know where Jackson is---” Scott’s voice is a comfortable background noise that got rid of the high frequency buzz in her ear.  “Allison told me that she was there too because Principal Argent wanted her to watch – mentioned something about her aunt and all.  And get this: her parents let her tag along!  What if she was arrested?  The entire station is gone – razed to the ground.”  _It was a strategic plan that hunters typically do when they feel that a town needs a slash and burn. Take down the law enforcement and you become the law. Already, the entire town smells of wolfs bane._ Stiles scowls.  Taking a shuddering breath, she rubs a hand over her face and wipes the blood off her palms using her shirt.  A hand presses down on her shoulder like a comforting weight.  Pain rushes out of her body.  Scott then reaches for her nape and squeezes, “Dude,” Scott lead her to a first aid kit, “take a break, alright? Get some rest.”

“It’s almost six,” Stiles grouses and hisses as she drips alcohol over her cuts, “Not really like I have much time to sleep.  If I’m awake now, I might as well make it an official all-nighter.  Go hard or go home.”

She heads towards the industrial sink, splashes some water over the back of her neck and examines herself in the mirror.  Rings of circles line underneath her sunken eyes; her hair is flaked with blood; there is blood everywhere.  Her shirt is unsalvageable but it had done its part in serving as a barrier against the elements, hanging off of her in tattered rags, her tank revealed underneath.  Thank god for layers.  In the mirror, Scott huffs and runs a hand through his hair, “You’re the queen of bad decisions.”

“Aren’t I always?” Stiles drily answers, “Do _you_ have any plans, Bro?”

“Yep,” Scott pops the P, “I can’t tell you anything.  I’m working undercover.”

She blinks twice, “…With those hunters?  You sure?  I mean, they could string up your guts for garters before you can howl.”

Scott grimly nods, “I can’t say much, since I need you to be genuine.  But I think that the fact that they know that I’m a werewolf is keeping me alive, funny as that is.  Gerard has something planned for tomorrow, so I can’t go to school.  He’s hinting that if whatever happens tomorrow goes right, he’ll approve of me and Allison and I’ll become a make man.”

“A made man,” Stiles corrects.

He shrugs, “Whatever, man.  Anyways, I got to go: my mom’s about to wake, Derek is going to need a ride even if he doesn’t say anything; something big is going to happen.  Trust me, OK?  Just…  Just, talk to Deaton.  It’s his master plan.”

“Wait, you’re undercover in a specific breed of people that are trained to kill people like you because of _Deaton?_ ”  Her voice raises in a sudden rush of anger.  “You’re going to be a lamb walking into a slaughter and all because you’re convinced that you have a Yoda.”

“Stiles, no.”  Scott spins her around and holds her shoulder, leeching off more pain as he leans forward, making sure to maintain eye contact, “Stiles, I’ll be fine.  This plan is going to work.  We’ll make Beacon Hills safe again.  Trust me.  Trust me if you don’t trust Deaton.”

“I don’t like this,” she hisses, bristling with fury.  “Allison won’t either.”

“Trust me,” Scott repeats, eyes flashing yellow… was there a bit of red? 

 _There_ was _red.  Hmmm…_

Two minutes later, Scott and Derek take the police van and leave the compound.

The fluorescent lights hummed as they illuminate the four corners of the area.  The room echoes with the soft sounds of animals in the cages lining the walls.  There are three people in the room: Stiles, Deaton, and her dad.  Her dad is unconscious.  Deaton had heard every word.  Deaton is treating her dad for a concussion.   You know those awkward turtle moments where you just want to diffuse the tension in the atmosphere, but you’re still angry at the guy who you believe is going to kill your best friend and will somehow manage to not get blamed in the aftermath because he’s like the cryptic all-knowing mentor who only guides and advises and never tells you the fucking solution– like Dumbledore to Harry?   _Stiles, be quiet_.  Stiles swallows and rhythmically pumps her legs as she watches from her perch on the countertops.  She scratches at her bandages and coughs.

In an adjacent room with an open door, there is another person lying on the couch in the veterinarian office.  Someone with a short shirt and thigh high boots, “Umm...  So.  Is that Erica?”

“That is a hunter that Isaac has brought in.  She will need a night’s rest, so please don’t bother her.”  Dr. Deaton’s eyes don’t stray from the unconscious patient; his dedication comforts her.  “Your father, on the other hand, will need further watching even if he wakes in the morning.  Seeing how morning is only,” Deaton checks the clock on the far wall, “an hour and a half away.  Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

The question makes Stiles laugh, “Yeah, about that.  Don’t you think that I deserve to not go to school tomorrow?  And won’t Principal Argent, King of the Argents, weapon master extraordinaire with his own private army- wouldn’t he be there?  Isn’t he looking for me?  If I go to school, won’t I be dead?”  The fluorescent lighting flicker above.

“I received some news from a fellow… coworker of mine; you might be familiar with her, Mrs. Morrell.”  Stiles delicately raises an eyebrow.  Mrs. Morrell the therapist?  Mrs. Morrell the guidance counselor?  Mrs. Morrell the one who apparently moonlights as Dr. Deaton’s sleeper agent?  “Gerard Argent has never been a good man but our world has always kept… tabs on him.  There’s always been balance because he has always, in the end, reaped what he sowed.  But lately, he’s been dabbling in topics that should be left alone.”  _How do you make a mad man madder?  By killing his heir.  “_ In his office, there is something that does not belong.  I would like you to fetch it.”

No way is she going to stroll into that place and play a game of ‘one of these things is not like the others.’  “Way to be vague.  I’ve been in his office,” Stiles rebukes, “What makes you think I’ll find it?”

“Because you’re experiencing a version of it right now,” Deaton replies gently, as her dad murmurs in his sleep.  “Magic feels magic.  You also have something inside of you that I would like gone.”  _Our extraordinary emissary…  What a clever man._   

“I’m still going to be quartered the moment he spots me.”

“No you won’t.  If you are not spotted, Mrs. Morrell will cover for you.”

“…and Scott can’t do it because...”

Deaton places his tools down on the metal tray, “You can’t sniff out sparks.  Besides, as he has told you, I have another task for Scott to do; he’s in a position of hate, being a werewolf, and trust, having his family members threatened.  It’s a very delicate position to keep but a position of power.”  Stiles bites her bottom lip.  “Why don’t you stay here and think about it, keep Miss Reyes and your father company?”  He then hands her a bottle of Adderall.

III

Everyone she knows in school, friend, acquaintances, enemies, mild acquaintances, mild enemies – the whole spectrum, is absent today. The beta wolves are absent today.  Allison is absent today.  Scott is playing hooky.  There’s been an alert set up for both Jackson and Matt though it’s not too helpful considering that the Sheriff’s station, the only source of lawful order in Beacon Hills, is temporarily out of commission.

Sleep deprivation makes the voice of Peter Hale stronger, which at this point should worry her, having a mass murderer in her head and all, but he’s been in her head for so long (ever since the epic battle between Kate Argent and Peter Hale) that he’s like a pleasant radio talking in the background. His words are louder.  His words cut deeper.  He words are strangely Lynchian.  Some people have imaginary theme music dictating their actions in life.  She has snarky commentary.  Those were the days: back when he would only appear as a second opinion, as strong as an emotion, where she could convince herself that she was only schizophrenic and not an actual host for a werewolf.

At the moment, he’s really happy.  _A banshee!  Dormant, unfortunately, but this is very interesting.  It is true then: once a wolf pack abandons a territory, other creatures come out to play._   _Did her family come after the Hale fire?  How soon after?_ Lydia has her hands on her hips, lips pursed, hair perfectly arranged, as beautiful as ever, “You already owe me many favors, Stilinski.”  _Never owe a fae a favor. Definitely never owe a fae favors._ “You’re lucky that I like you so much.”  _Though congratulations on gaining her favor._ Peter’s voice, dripping with fascination and approval, is so close it seems like he was an actual entity, talking behind her ear.  “I have a question though,” She combs a hand through her hair, “tell me the truth and that’ll be one favor from you to me.”

“Which truth?” Stiles twitches uneasily.  For the entire day, she had been blending with the crowd, sitting in all of her classes, more jittery than normal, fully prepared to leap out the window if by chance Argent’s men stormed in through the classroom.  It hasn’t come to that.  In fact, none of the teachers called her name during attendance and no student besides Lydia and Danny noticed, the latter of whom gave her a look that was nearly on par with the whole gay-baiting episode. She supposed that she had Mrs. Morrell to thank for that.  Mrs. Morrell: sleeper magic agent.  …Holy shit.  Stiles haven’t gone to their scheduled appointment today after class because… well…   She used to spill all of her secrets to that woman, including the time when she was being paranoid about living in a teen drama having felt some sort of possessive jealousy over the only girl she ever had a crush on when the new girl came.  Now she believes that she’s living in a different genre of entertainment.  She reckoned that the show would be called All My Wolves or Wolf Haven.   “Though if you want me to tell you what is happening, we’ll need a more private area.”

Lydia crosses her arms, “Fine.  You have a lot of debts to repay.  I can use this one frivolously.”

“You just want to see me squirm.”  Stiles accuses as the bell rang.

Lydia shrugs.  “Do you know where Jackson is?”

Stiles’s gaze flickers from her peripherals to Lydia’s eyes.  “Nobody is answering my text.”  Not Scott.  Not Deaton.  Not Derek.  Nobody was here.  Everyone is gone.

“Do you know where Allison is?”

“I guess she’s home?  Her mom died last night.”  _Did the banshee scream?_   _I did not hear her scream.  Bring out her potential.  Get Derek to bite her. She’ll forgive you later._ “Scott tried to talk to her but that didn’t really work out.”

Lydia twirls a strand of hair on her finger, “You keep pushing them together.”

There is an unasked question in that statement.  Stiles drily regards her, “Is this still your favor?”

The other girl casually buffs her nails on her shirt, “equivalence of values.”

“Fine then.  Scott and I.”  Stiles rolls her eyes, “Our friendship is like a challenge against the When Harry Met Sally notion that a boy and a girl can’t be together without being together-together.”

“But,” Lydia keeps pressing, “Is that the only thing?  You’re not jealous at all?  Not in denial?”  _Her protectiveness is cute._ “At the very least, tell me that you’re living vicariously through them.”

Stiles snorts, shaking her bangs out of her line of vision, “Did you know?”  She starts in a conversational tone, “that I tried tutoring Scott a couple months ago in Chemistry, a subject that he wasn’t really failing in but was barely passing.”  Lydia doesn’t seem to know where her train of thought was heading for.  (Bestiary.  Bestiality.)  Honestly, Stiles wasn’t sure where it was going either – an all-nighter running for your life can do that.  Stiles yawns, “Let’s just say that I ended up writing an essay on the history of male circumcision on the back of my Economics midterm the next day.”

 _...What?_ “…What?”

Stiles beams.

Lydia huffs, “OK, fine, one favor repaid but one gained today.  I hope you got what you were looking for.”  Stiles’ smile widens as she digs through her pockets and triumphantly shows her a crumpled piece of folded paper.  Lydia holds out a hand, palms up.  Stiles gives it to her without a thought and watches as the other girl flattens the edges down and frowns at the pentagram drawn in black sharpie.  It still is scented faintly of ozone, as if the symbol is close to burning itself out of the paper.  The left desk drawer of Principal Argent’s desk, second down, no lock or code to open, surrounding air is also heavy with ozone – probably still heavy, even with its source gone.  Deaton was right.  It does feel familiar.  “It’s Archaic Latin.”

“I love me some Archaic Latin.”  Stiles quips back with a lopsided grin, “I won’t need your help on this.  Between your translated bestiary and… uh…”  She trails off.  _Deaton’s knowledge of magic.  My knowledge of magic.  Your lack of knowledge of magic._ “I’ll be fine,” she finishes lamely.

“Suit yourself,” the other tosses her hair over a shoulder, “You will,” she adds with a bit of uncertainty, “tell me eventually all of this?”  She opens her arms to encompass all of the ninety-nine problems that Stiles has.

“Yeah.  Eventually.  I feel like I have to.”  Stiles rubs the back of her neck, “it won’t even count as a favor, because I think you’re going to get caught in it eventually.”

“I won’t if I don’t want to,” with the conversation wrapping up, Lydia pivots and walks away; she is far enough that she doesn’t hear Stiles’ murmur.

_Yes you will._

“I think you will.”

IV

“I haven’t seen her all day since she came back last night with that look,” Chris Argent shakes his head, elbows resting on his knees, hands playing with a photo of his family that he had taken out of his wallet, “you see that face in soldiers who came back from their tour overseas.  She’s still mourning.  I just don’t know where she is.  I don’t know how to help her.”

Stiles’ eyes do not stray from the school lacrosse game. “I bet that’s a shock.  Considering that you used to track her with her phone.”  From her high position on the benches, she can see the attempt at a tailgate in the parking lot beyond the field fence.  She clucked her tongue; Chris Argent looks like an army man who had just returned from a tour and realized that he might have to go back, “Sorry for your loss, by the way.”  She decides not to mention the fact that Victoria Argent once tried to run over Scott with her car.  And with an effort to not make the air any more awkward than it already is, she deliberately turns away, scanning the crowds below her who were actually engrossed in the lacrosse game for Principal Argent.  He was just here a minute ago, standing next to the coach who was starting to get really creative with his expletives with that infuriating half smile.

“Victoria has been acting off for a while, but I never thought that she would die.  I had thought that she was uncomfortable with that McCall boy dating our daughter.  But in retrospect, it was when my father visited with half of his team.”  Stiles speculates that Chris Argent might actually see her as a friend of sorts, a complicated frenemy that one can’t ignore.  Maybe he calls her ‘that Stilinski kid’ with the same twist in his mouth that he has when he’s referring to Scott.  “I didn’t notice the changes soon enough, that my wife had wished that I was more proactive.  Suddenly, she runs off with my father and allies to destroy the police station, taking my daughter with them, making her watch.”  On the field, Danny blocks a score attempt.  “If I had known, I would’ve told you.”

“Maybe,” Stiles ventures as the crowd begins to cheer and chant, “You didn’t want to notice.  You didn’t notice that Kate Argent had burned down an entire family.”  _You didn’t want to notice._   “Who do you think taught her and shaped her to be who she is today?  She didn’t learn how to seduce little boys and commit arson all by her lonesome.”  She pauses, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.  I expected you to say those things.  I understand that I have weaknesses.  Family makes me blind.  But I’m not going to try to explain myself; I need you to understand how little I can help you at this moment, though I am trying. I am not the head of my house,” the man presses his temples and runs a hand over his forehead, “There are strangers living in my rooms.  My daughter has emptied out everything that she holds with sentimental value.  My basement has been redesigned to become a holding cell specified for nonhumans – there are two wolves there.”  Stiles slowly bends her head, popping stiff joints, silently demanding an explanation.

“One of Derek’s?”

“It’s hard to discern.  They have livewires attached.  Wolves undergo partial shift when you force a specific number of volts through their bodies.”

“Did you set them free?”

“I can’t.”  His voice is laced with frustration.  “Not directly at least.”  Chris grimaces.  “We’ll see how resourceful they are.  Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.  They haven’t done anything wrong.  They were obviously newly changed betas.  To me, seeing them was the last straw.  I got angry.  I tried to push back at Gerard and find his plans.  How.  Why.  Unfortunately, I have no backing from my own family.  I’m considered untrustworthy.”  The man slowly raises his head, lacing his fingers together, “I do know more than nothing.  He has plans for this event but he and Scott McCall are pushing further into the woods.  They’re heading toward Hale property.”

“I know about Scott,” Stiles plays with the hem of her shirt, twisting it this way and that, “It’s all part of the Master Plan.  Principal Argent is…”  She struggles to recall the sparse bits of information Scott had deigned to offer her last night (morning?) in Deaton’s office before he left, “sick.  He’s weaker than he looks.”  Scott had left her for his own role to play the hero.  Scott is independent.  Scott is growing up.  She closes her eyes and behind her eyelids she could see...  There was Scott, back towards her, shoulders set, broad and confident, walking away…

“Can he fix this?  He’s only a teenager.  He would be an omega if it wasn’t for you and my daughter.”  Chris reaches into his jacket, pulls out an uzi pistol, and nonchalantly passes it over like it was something innocuous, like a hotdog.  Stiles’ jaw drops.  She keeps herself from squeaking in fear since the man looked to be seconds away from slapping a hand over her mouth if she so much as whimpers and draws attention. “Beacon Hills is marked red on many maps due to having an unusual history: a patterned flux of abnormally high and low amounts of supernatural activity that shifts about every generation or so, ever since its founding.  The reign of the Hale family had gone through some of those rises and falls.  The years after their death was an era of a supernatural vacuum but nonhumans will eventually congregate to this area.  There has been…” Chris looked reluctant to divulge the information, probably thinking that it’s enough that a teenager has an uzi pistol, much less be recruited to guard the town, “there is a reason why this place is called Beacon Hills.”

“Do you know why?”

Chris shakes his head, “There are some theories, but nothing has been proven.  It’s just known that this is a small pocket of unusual activity: a small Bermuda Triangle.”  ‘A Hellmouth,’ her mind supplies helpfully.  “If supernatural activity continues to rise at this speed, if people continue to die of animal attacks, if people start to ask questions…  Humans aren’t the only species that have a policing group in America.  Werewolves have one too.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“The Alpha Pack,” He says simply, like it is an answer.

“I think we went over this before.  I don’t know what the Alpha Pack is,” Stiles replies impatiently.

Chris ponders for a bit, mulling around his words before he says, “Derek does.  He---”

He doesn’t finish his sentence because a bomb goes off on the pitch, filling the area with a taupe-ish yellow fog that causes the crowd to immediately panic.  A second bomb goes off in the bleachers, releasing the same noxious fumes that had spread across the lower levels.  Wolfs bane.  It always comes down to wolfs bane.  _It’s laced with hallucinogenics that can also affect humans._  She sees a pair of glowing blue eyes.  _Follow Chris Argent._ Where is Chris Argent?  _Do not panic._ A hand grabs her arm and roughly shoves her down the stairs.  She weaves between people, stumbling over the grass, following the painted white lines until a hand on her shoulder directed her right.  She hears someone crying.  A body falls to the ground on her left, making a sickening thud.

(She’s sitting next to her mom in their backyard as she clips some flowering gardenias from the garden; the air is sweet and warm.  She’s practicing catechisms.  “When someone asks for your real name, darling, you tell them that they can’t pronounce it.  You will answer to the name of Stiles.  Only our family will know your name.  Names are power.  Do not give them to anyone, ever.  If you follow my directions, you will live.”

“You can’t pronounce my name.  Just call me Stiles,” she dutifully parrots back.)

Her phone vibrates in her pocket.  It takes her five minutes before she could fish it out from its position next to the uzi pistol, “’Lo?”

“Stiles!” It’s Allison.  “Listen, I need to know where Derek is.”

“Errr…” Stiles trails off, a bit puzzled as to why anyone would think that she would know where Derek is, “Allison, are you OK?  You don’t sound good at all.” 

“You don’t sound good.  You don’t sound good at all.  Almost like, oh god, you’re there too?  I…”  Allison sounds aggravated enough to start pulling hair out from her roots but both her pitch and tone lowers to a murmur, “If you see Derek, tell him that Scott is in trouble.  I… I can’t…  Gerard, he wants---” She screams, an ear-piercing wail.  Guns start firing.  The phone drops but doesn’t hang up.  Allison is still screaming, breaking through the incoming shouts from fast approaching men on her side, all indistinct.

“You should hang up,” a man says not two meters ahead of her.  “No need to listen to her getting captured and tortured, it’s unbecoming to eavesdrop.”

Stiles scrutinizes the man, unable to match voice to this face before her that looks decidedly… odd, “Hi Peter.” She finally greets, “Is this a hallucination?  Did that phone call really happen?  Are you getting stronger?  Isn’t that a bad thing?”  Her brain acknowledges that the thing standing before her was a person, but like in a dream, it was hard to pick out any definite, identifying, characteristics.

“Yes.”  Allison’s screams disappear, like a snap of the neck.  Nausea emerges like a spike through her heart.  She bends over and pukes today’s school lunch, aiming a foot away from her shoes, gagging until the burn dies down and the acidic taste in her mouth settles.  She gathers herself and tries to gain her bearings, nearly staggering into a branch.  She’s far in the woods but she’s not sure how she got here.  It’s a decent run from the school.  Was she in a car?  Chris Argent might have taken her here… and then left her here to pursue those responsible.  Gerard?  Maybe.  Why would Gerard want to LSD up a highschool?  Was he weeding out werewolves from the school?  But none of them came in today.  Was it set up as a distraction?  Was it a mistake?

Stiles feels unsure, uncertain, her mind still hazy, moving like slow molasses rather than its usual fast gasoline.  “I don’t understand what’s going on,” she wants to plainly states as her shoes crunch softly over dead leaves and bent twigs.  But she keeps silent.  There are other people in this forest… hunters.  Three of them- all armed.  Did Peter force himself out as a hallucination to stop before she simply walks into their campsite?  That is… strangely nice of him.  There’s an ulterior motive in that kindness, somewhere.  She peers over a boulder and blanches.

“Animal in these parts of the woods – they might know…”

In a clearing, Erica and Boyd are huddled by an armored black van, manacles attached from wrist to wrist and then to each other, surrounded by a ring of powdered mountain ash.  She smells burnt flesh and nearly vomits once more.  Chris Argent mentioned a basement and livewire.  _You didn’t have a problem when you were burning me_.  The good news is that nobody is providing eyes for their general blind spot.  Stiles edges to the side until she had the trunk in view, until she was upwind.  Erica twitches once but stills with a low growl from Boyd, her eyes widen.  “Argent’s mania is unfortunate.  Their father-daughter duo was legendary.  They wiped out entire swarths, communities, packs…”

“He’s trying to remake it: grandfather-granddaughter duo.  That’s why he dragged the little girl with us.  Did you see the look on her face?  This is what happens when you don’t introduce the tradition to the young ones early in life.  This is a mistake.”  Slowly… Slowly… Stiles crawled on all fours, narrowing missing a flashlight beam that swept across, missing her by inches.

“I think you’re wrong.  Yes, Allison has nothing on Kate.  Kate was a warrior.  Kate was ruthless.  We fear and respect Kate.  I can’t say the same for Allison.  But, I think Gerard knows that.”  _That rune that you picked up, do you recall the pentagram shape?  The five point star represents the five wounds of Christ._ But that’s the crux of the matter: Stiles didn’t find the pentagram upright, it was reversed.  The goat.  The devil.  A herald of evil, sinister forces that is able to bend rules that should never be ignored. One of the rules is death.  Gerard is trying to reverse death.  …Kate.  _Clever girl._ Stiles slowly inches toward the trunk and peaks into the back window, trying to decide which weapon would suit her best.  She has half a second to use it before the hunters would respond.  She needs a diversion.

As if reading her mind, Erica howls.  Stiles clicks open the compartment and yanks out two grenades from their holders, pulls out one of the pins and rolls it to the feet of the hunters.  Then, kicking the mountain ash barrier open, she yanks both werewolves to their feet and runs, pulling at them to follow.  The explosion rocks the ground.  The vehicle is sent flying in the opposite direction.  “Hey!”  After the smoke had cleared, it was evident that the hunters had backed off enough from the blast to not be severely harmed from the flying shrapnel.  Unfortunately, their recovery time was alarmingly short, “Get back here, you little bitch!”

“Quick!  They’re heading west!  I can still see them!”  Stiles curses, dodging the trees and skipping over branches.  Bullets ricochet off trees, brushing over her scalp, an inch away from her ear.  Somewhere in the forest, another werewolf howls.  That werewolf is soon joined by at least four others.  Stiles throws back another grenade.  An explosion forces the trees to shudder; the shock wave resonates through her ribs.  It forces the birds in the canopy to scatter, angry at the disturbance.  She can hear her heartbeat and her wheezes; she could feel the formation of a stich in her side and was grateful, for once, for Finstock’s suicide runs.  After a couple of minutes of sprinting, Stiles dares to glimpse back: they lost their pursuers.  She sets her pace to a slow jog, taking a sharp right, preferring to put more distance between them and the danger.  Finally, she stops at the roots of a large tree.  She cannot believe her luck.

She turns around to address her companions, plan a route out of the forest, survive the night, at least the next hour, find a way to get them out of their chains, but she froze.  The two betas were half feral but that didn’t erase the look of sheer terror from their faces.  “You have something red,” she gestures towards her forehead, “bleeding.” Boyd had a triskelion carved into his forehead, freshly done.  She was sure that Erica had the same.  “Did they…?  I didn’t notice…”

“It just happened now,” Erica shakily confirms, “as we were running.  Those werewolves - they’re calling for us.”  She wraps her arms around herself, “They know we’re here.  They are all more powerful, almost as if…”  Was this the Alpha Pack, the terror that even Chris Argent was reluctant to talk about?  The fear emanating from the betas were instinctual.  Stiles highly doubted that Derek had mentioned anything like this, considering the recent insanity that had taken most of their attention.  “I don’t know what they want but I know that it isn’t good.”

“Alpha.  Beta.  Omega.”  Boyd growls.  “There is balance.  There are those trying to fix everything.”  He exchanges looks with Erica, then both of them turn to look at Stiles.  “They will be taking us.  We’re already weak.  We can’t fight back.  But,” he tilts his head to the wind, considering his options, “they don’t know that you’re here.”

She did not like the resignation plain on their faces nor did she like the decision that all three of them were coming to.  Stiles stomps her foot to the ground, “I’m not leaving you guys.  I just got you.”  Boyd smiles through his yellow eyes and elongated fangs.  He walks up to her and wordlessly encases her in a massive hug; she feels Erica doing the same from behind.  She might not know them as well as she had wished to, for that is what life is.  And she’s not sure if she’ll ever see them again, but she’ll try her damn hardest to get them back.  They understand this too.  Five seconds of warmth encompassing her on all sides.  That’s all she gets.  Then it’s a foregone conclusion.  Stiles closes her eyes and tries not to cry…

She’s shaken awake by Chris Argent who is feeling her forehead, slapping her face, trying to rouse her.  “We have to move.  Gerard and his men are heading towards the Hale House.  We have to go.”  As soon as her eyes snap open, he hefts her onto her feet and gives her a couple of seconds to wobble and regain her balance.  “Let’s go.”  He takes point.

Stiles mindlessly obeys, wondering if all of that had been one massive hallucination as well.

V

“I’ve never opened my eyes to the world, because in all my life I’ve been exposed to both sides of it, the mundane and the unexplained.  Having my sort of experience, I can predict,” Gerard Argent reloads his assault rifle, “almost anything.  Magic,” he continues, kicking Derek’s side from where he was kneeled, guarded by two Kanimas, “is an absolute wonder and almost another science in itself.  You can do many things with this special science – Victor Frankenstein would attest to the fact.  With this power, I can move worlds.  It makes people wary of its strength, of the way it can bypass laws.  But magic isn’t evil if you do it for good.  Why am I dabbling in magic?  It’s because I miss my family.”  He holds out a hand to his general audience.  Chris Argent noticeably takes a step back.  Allison, still behind enemy lines, makes a noise of weak protest.  “My one, valuable, dearest family member, who is dead.  I am alone.  I am a lonely man.”

The lines drawn in the battlefield have come out smudged and blurry.  A small family of hunters, including a girl with a short skirt and thigh high boots, whom Stiles had spotted in Deaton’s room adjacent to his office, were positioned behind Isaac.  Gerard still had the majority of his men still on his side.  Chris Argent and Stiles stood at one end.  The Sheriff stood alone.  Derek was on the ground with no supporters though Isaac made multiple aborted movements toward his Alpha who kept driving him back with a low growl.  Scott was standing on Gerard’s right hand side, Allison a bit ways behind them.  Anybody with a gun had a gun out.  The only man who moved was Gerard and in his mind, the world was at his feet, all before him, his for the taking.  He doesn’t believe that the world would allow us to shoot him.  He actually believes that.  He believes that things are going to go his way.  _Beliefs have power._

“The people who die in this world are those who shouldn’t die,” The man continued, raising his arms towards the crescent moon, “The reason is because of all these monsters that I see.  But I will reverse it.  I will make it all better.”  By initiating a resurrection?  Stiles uneasily recalls the time when she read _Pet Semetary_ by Stephen King or _The Monkey’s Paw_ by Edgar Allan Poe.  Is this the origin story for the zombie apocalypse?  _He’s standing on the site where she died.  He’s calling upon my family magics.  How dare he?  He will pay.  You will make him pay.  Do you remember the rune?_ She does.  “There are three of my own unaccounted for,” Gerard walks in a circle, using the tip of his rifle to etch into the dirt, “My dear son, do you know where they are?  No?  Why won’t you answer?  What about you, little girl?  Where did you get one of my weapons from?  What do you know?”  _You are a spark.  You have to believe.  Imagine the rune._ Gerard takes out a handful from his pouch of mountain ash and lines the edges and then slowly, carefully, excruciatingly, begins to start his pattern.

She thinks about her grenades and the fast approaching Alpha Pack that still lurks in the woods.  “Eaten,” Stiles says after the silence was too heavy to bear.  No one else dares to speak, “I think.”  Gerard Argent was a grenade that was expected to explode but for some reason hasn’t.  As a dud, anything can set him off.  The slightest, off-kilter nudge can start a fight.

_You are the spark.  You have to believe.  Imagine the rune.  Change the rune._

“I suppose two Kanimas are enough to make up for their work.”  Coughing, Gerard’s face darkens, “My men are not mere statistics.  They will be mourned in a manner befitting of heroes.  These deaths are all wrong.  I have to prevent them, even my own- which brings me to the second half of this night.”  Without glancing back, he orders, “Scott.”  Scott.  One word.  Come.  Sit.  Stay.  Heel.  Bark.  Attack.  Scott comes forward, face unreadable.  Allison sobs louder as the hunter’s knife dug into her neck.  (“Trust me.”)  _Replace the universal symbol for female with male._ Scott approaches Derek.  The Kanimas draw back, hissing threateningly from their lower vantage point, but do not tense.  Scott roughly grabs Derek’s arms and forces them at an angle as Gerard comes forward, measurably pleased.  Derek’s fangs emerge with a sound of a sword pulled out of its scabbard.  “Remember your place boy.”  He holds out his arm and addresses his men, “Bring my granddaughter here and make sure she doesn’t run.”  _Your will is stronger than his._ A flash of doubt lasts for a second on Scott’s face.  This is the exact moment that Stiles realizes that Scott doesn’t know the second part of Gerard’s master plan or the rune that Deaton had sent Stiles to retrieve.  Was Scott’s absence of knowledge intentional?  Did Deaton foresee this happening?  Can he predict the unpredictable ways of man?

Chris Argent moves forward and reloads his gun.  The click echoes in the clearing.  He sets off a chain of reaction.  Gerard throws a handful of mountain ash into the air and screams.  The hunters, the Sheriff, Chris, all start shooting: thighs, torsos, anything large enough to aim at.  Allison elbows the person holding her down in the side and steps off, narrowing escaping the path of the knife.  Immediately, two others surround her, Allison grapples with one, kicking at her stomach.  Isaac and his new group of friends struggle to subdue the two Kanimas. Seeing how his plans are rapidly spiraling out of his control, Scott forces Derek to bite Gerard.  Gerard’s eyes turn black.

Stiles takes this all in passively, uzi pistol hanging limply at her side, focusing her attention at the heavy air, concentrating on the small circle.  As the mountain ash settles, she imagines a triskelion to replace the symbol of man and a spiral emanating from the center, growing and growing and growing…  Allison takes a knife to the throat.  Scott howls.  Chris screams.  Time slows down.  But Stiles must hurry, she can’t be distracted; she can’t make this horrid situation any more disastrous.  Her blood, spurting in the rhythm of her heart, arterial blood, carotid blood, slips past her fingers, and spills onto the rune.  _Lifeblood.  A life for a life.  Thank you, Stiles.  Your help was invaluable._

The ground below begins to shake and rise.  There was a body underneath the symbol, displacing the soil, though no one has been buried there.  With black tears and black vomit, Gerard manages to smile widely and slowly make his way to the cracks that were splitting the earth and he did not notice the changes made to his symbol.  He pushes the two dead Kanimas (multiple bullets to the head for both) out from his immediate vicinity and kneels to the ground.  “My Kate, my darling Kate, your father waits for your return.  Do not keep me waiting for long,” he murmurs, hacking up more black phlegm.  Gerard smells of mountain ash.  The black body fluids smell of mountain ash.  Was this Deaton’s plan?  Was this Scott’s doing?  Stiles looks for Scott in the declining chaos.  Scott was pushing Allison, her hands still clasped around her throat to stem the blood loss, pale and dying, towards Derek, begging him to bite her.  Chris didn’t move from his place on Stiles’ right.   Derek shook his head.  The answer was no: not because Derek wouldn’t, but that he can’t.  The magic has taken away his position as Alpha and the techniques that went with it.  Was this Deaton’s plan? Magic.  Balance.  A life for a life.  Payment.  Stiles looks away.

The hand that emerges from the soil was that of a man’s.  Peter Hale breaks free, standing in the center of the spiral as healthy as the moment before he died.  Gerard Argent, still unable to comprehend the abrupt turn of events, did not even see the claws that tore out his throat.  Peter Hale throws back his head and howls at the crescent moon.  Nobody tries to stop him.

Stiles crawls over to her dad and gently slaps his face to rouse him from his thousand yard stare: alive, healthy, conscious.  Good.  Her dad reaches over, takes her hand and squeezes, “It wasn’t like this the first time,” he says, voice graveled from disuse.

“No,” Stiles licks her lips.  She has tried her best but it wasn’t enough.  She feels like she wants to pass out because she hasn’t slept in over forty-eight hours.  She thinks about Erica and Boyd and their capture by the Alpha Pack, purposely knocking her out so that she can be spared.  She thinks about Scott and how he’ll cope with the death of his first love.  She thinks about the broken building of the Sheriff’s department and all the dead bodies that had lied there.  She thinks about Matt’s victims. She thinks about Lydia and Danny and the news that her boyfriend and his best friend is dead.  She thinks about Matt’s family.  She thinks about the definition of casualties.  She thinks that it’s truly amazing that she’s alive.  “It’ll only get worse.”

She speaks with such certainty.  Her own certainty chills her.

(It’s like I’m walking through Hell.

And what do you do when you’re walking through Hell?

You keep going.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> The ending got darker than what I had intended when I first started typing.  
> The incident with Danny is pretty much the same as it is in canon.  
> Isaac has befriended the Hunter who had saved him in the beginning of the 3rd season.  
> Scott is slowly poisoning Gerard like in the actual 2nd season.  
> It's not explicitly mentioned but Chris Argent sees Stiles as a make-shift emissary.  
> There are a lot of references to notable quotes in canon.  
> Yes: there are hints about Alpha Pack, the Banshee, the Nemeton, and the position of an emissary.  
> Yes: there is my head canon that Stiles is surviving due to the fact that no one knows his name.  
> A quote taken and paraphrased from "Todd Allison & the Petunia Violet."
> 
>  
> 
> Imaginary scene from Season 3:  
> Stiles stretches back with an absurd amount of faith in her throwing arm. Really, the only time to judge a person's character is when he or she is desperate. The darach has made her desperate, very desperate. Her father is somewhere out there, prepped for sacrifice, and when she finds him, he better not have a hair out of place or... or... Stiles follows through, swinging her arm around, taking a step forward, and flings the molotov cocktail at the base of the Nemeton. 'I'm going to get you,' her blood sings, 'And you're going to die.'


End file.
